


bad, bad thoughts

by miehczyslaw



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Aftermath, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book Spoilers, Canon - Book, Gender Issues, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, if im pining for u and ur pining for me whos driving this bike
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 18:00:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20800625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miehczyslaw/pseuds/miehczyslaw
Summary: “Hey Billy,” Bill looks over his shoulder, and Richie reveals him a secret— the kind of secret that comes every twenty-seven years.





	bad, bad thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> set in a magical land where The Losers don't stop hanging out for years and years (and years) after IT's first defeat bc you know what Stephen, fuck u. also kinda a future fic? theyre aged up two years just because.
> 
> i was purposely vague in regards to richie's sexuality. i know IT part 2 revealed him as gay and is the most common label for him in (modern) fandom but i don't consider the movies canon..... not really. and this is based on the book. and i hc richie as bi (in the book), with reasons. still, i keep it vague enough so you can interpreter his sexuality freely, as it best suits you!
> 
> tw for non graphic mentions of underage smoking & underage masturbation and a very very brief scene that includes gay slurs / homophobia. i don't think its big enough to tag it but its there.

Richie often thinks that on any other occasion, maybe when his life didn’t hung on _a thread_

(the scratch of a teenage werewolf— who clearly lost his way to Paris)

all that would have seemed surreal to him, and if he had heard the story from someone else, he would have let out a good laugh. Probably.

“Oh, because there is nothing better than laughing after facing death to confirm to yourself that you are still alive,” some old neighbors comment when they think they are being ignored. Richie does not ignore them— _no sir_— he listens to anyone attentively, more for precaution than pleasure, but always attentive since everything ended for them. Since IT died. If it did.

He usually sees himself meditating on the subject when he has nothing to do with the others.

_Something brought us all together, something with his shell and his green green green_—_ he wanted us to join forces to end that... that _thing_, and we did that. And now we are free, yes, always free, like the wind_.

Then the same feeling, the one of facing death in the form of a hairy beast in the 29th house on Neibolt Street, comes back with even more force than before.

He remembers the Great Bill shooting uselessly at the werewolf again and again, then Bill climbing on the coal and running away with him, after throwing dust to its face to make the creature sneeze— since _it seemed reasonable in the moment_ duh!

With their hearts bleeding in their mouths, and salt tears swirling in their eyes, burning invisible wounds.

If they were escaping from Henry, Victor or Belch things may have been different, Richie assures himself. Perhaps, instead of terror he would have felt fun— a strange and kinda terrifying fun— but fun nontheless. Maybe he wouldn’t have held on so tightly to Bill’s waist too. No, Richie knows, in any other situation he would have never _be brave enough_ to do it. Perhaps the two would never have cried either, in broad daylight, hugging each other like a sailor lost in the sea, near Witcham Street.

But all that happened. And although IT is gone, although Henry and his cronies are gone as well, those memories will not disappear by good. They will always be there, in fact. In the confines of his memory— _like, floating_. Or, you know, stuff. But maybe Richie doesn’t want them to leave, maybe he’s happy with things as they are— because until then he hadn’t allowed himself to notice how wide Bill’s back is, or the strength of his skinny shoulders, or how his hair flies against the wind, so red that the fire itself could envy him.

It turns out that.

Sometimes Richie heard the girls chatter about their dream loves. And even if they all agree that Bill’s stuttering quits him extra points on a “charm scale” that Richie gives two fucks, they consider him handsome in general. Even Bev used to join them, once in a while and _more out of obligation_, usually to give them skeptical looks of, “but do you really think this things?” and as far as he knows— although Bev doesn’t say it— she shares the same opinion about Bill.

That he’s oh! so charming, that his eyes are more blue than the sea and “I’d like very much to drown in them if that means he would look at me at least once”, that his hair is warmer than the heater of Derry’s public library, et-fucking-cetera.

Before this whole mess began, back in early March when George was alive and they knew only by sight those who would form their group of friends, Richie had dared to ask Bill why he had rejected Greta Bowie’s _suppossed feelings_. After school that day she had given him a perfumed letter, and pushed him in the shoulder.

“Sh-she-e’s just another s-s-spoiled girl,” he had said, looking at him with a ‘isn't it obvious?’ face.

There was no evil in his words— Bill was (is) _good_— nor anger over Greta’s stubbornness, only resignation that it would not be the first time he would reject someone and it was better to practice, to get used to the idea.

Richie wanted to ask more, because he didn’t have self preservation skills, but Georgie arrived and with him all interest in girls evaporated from Bill.

(even now, the doubt persists.)

With the arrival of Bev people could say that she and Bill were destined to end together, or at least that was what the rest of the Losers saw, with greater or lesser acceptance, including him.

So it’s a big surprise when _nothing happens_.

Maybe the world isn’t ready yet for two thirteen-year-old brats dating. Or maybe Bev accepts that Bill needs his space, since he started to stutter more in her presence when they returned from the sewers— or was it when he saw, by accident, the birth of her small breasts when he had to give her his shirt?

It may have been ealier, much earlier.

_Being his best friend and all_, the things that happen to Bill are at his fingertips. That’s not always pleasant.

Hearing the whispering of the girls in school give him a twinge of something he can’t define

(jealousy, _I’m jealous_.

And now our next song on the radio is for everyone who suffers from an unrequited love, kids—)

and that unpleasant feeling seizes him and Richie wants to open his stupid mouth and say a few truths, even if they send him to Detention later.

He can picture it on his mind already.

(“But what was going through your head when you were making fun of Sally Mueller?” his mother shrieks, with her jug-shaped arms. Mrs. Douglas’ regards him a disapproving look, too, before his mom takes him home and punishes him for a week, forbidding him from watching television.)

Richie rarely knows when it is better to shut up, but he’s sure that he should ignore them, the girls, when he founds them talking those kind of things. Not only to save his parents another headache, but because Bill likely would visit him when he’s allowed to, interested in getting answers.

And Richie is not ready to give them.

What can he say in his defense, really?

‘Oh Great Bill! The thing is that they got me _out of my damn mind_ with their empty compliments addressed to you. I had no choice but to face the thief who tried to steal me of what I most appreciate, don’t you think? Wot-wot?’

Oh hell, of course not. A phrase like that just highlights the obvious, that Bill is special to him— very special, the kind of special that comes every twenty-seven years— and that the mere idea that Bill can replace him scares him as much as Paul Bunyan’s horrible statue.

(which is also absurd, _that was a dream_. Maybe.)

The difference between his fear of Paul and his fondness for Bill is that the latter is tangible, real. And its always present, there, shining at every opportunity, like a silver-bullet. Like when they hugged in the corner of Witcham, very aware that an acquaintance could pass by in any second and misunderstand the scene, screaming, “You are sissies, sissies!”

“AND WHAT IF I AM, goddamn it.”

That also terrifies Richie, since the idea itself is not so unpleasant after a while. Not being insulted with names, but being... different. _Interested in other boys as well_.

His mother often jokes— although he wonders how much she is kidding, because her words seem true in his view— about _how easy_ things would be if he was a girl and not a boy. Richie is instantly annoyed, claiming it would make him disgusted to see himself in the mirror, that “Things are as they are for a reason woman,” and that she should stop watching those weird soap operas in the evenings unless she wishes to him to enlist and go to fight in a nonexistent war and to die there from the bubonic plague, all with his Irish accent. Maggie Tozier usually laughs at this, and the subject is finally forgotten.

However... Richie can’t help but look sideways at the sideboards of the stores where expensive dresses lie, wondering what it would feel like to be a pretty girl and to wear one of those. Wondering if Bill would still be his best friend, if he was a girl. Then the owner of the store bolts from the inside and screams at the young thugs who smoke outside it and he escapes among them, leaving those absurd thoughts planted there, with no chance of following him.

Because it’s stupid, very stupid, and he feels weird thinking deeply about it.

He likes to be a boy, he enjoys to be a boy, and the fact that he sometimes imagines himself with long, braided hair and wearing a polka dot skirt and a lace blouse, besides a somewhat flushed Bill, _means nothing at all_. Nope. It has affected him spending so much time with his mother, yes. It take just an hour, maybe two, leafing through one of the many Playboy copies that Wentworth Tozier thinks he keeps well hidden, for Richie to be the same as always.

All of this goes through Richie’s mind in less than five seconds as he walks towards the Barrens, to meet the rest of The Losers and play and laugh without having to fear IT.

Dazed, he slaps the pockets of his pants in search of a pack of cigarettes, just to remember that he smoked the day before the last one and that he has spent all his money that week, so he can’t smoke— unless Bev has more, which is unlikely. (They started to buy cigarettes together, a newly acquired habit of them.) Resigned to the abstinence Richie resumes his course. Being distracted, he ignores that someone follows him and calls his name loudly until he has the person almost in front of him. And it’s Bill, Bill who pedals at full speed in Silver.

Silver, who saved both of their lives more than once with its huge wheels and dull paint. Silver, who turns Bill ‘The Stutter’ Denbrough into the Lone Ranger, his greatest hero.

(Bill may don’t know, but for Richie he is the hero.)

Drops of sweat typical of that time of the year run across his forehead, accompanied by soft gasps, as he had to increase his pace when he saw that Richie ignored him. After a few seconds Bill manages to control his breathing. Richie _tries _not to stare— and ey, they should give him a fucking medal because of that.

“Y-y-you should s-se-nd your ears t-t-to check Tozier, I’ve b-be-been calling y-o-ou for a-a-a-a while,” he says, but he doesn't look upset.

“A thousand pardons Great Bill, a thousand pardons!” Richie apologizes, making a grotesque and exaggerated bow. Bill lets out a laugh, “Do not tell Stan the Man, but among us I was doing an inspection on the deck looking for birds for him.” Another laugh. “Unfortunately I only found an empty beer can and five cents, _a tragedy uh_?”

“Beep-beep, Richie,” Bill says. And laughs, laughs as only he can, causing Richie a slight blush at the mere thought that his laugh is beautiful as few things in life used to be.

_Poor little one, he caught the summer fever_, the grumpy elders would say.

But it wasn’t fever, he knew what he had caught, and it wasn’t a fever in any way.

He doesn’t dare to admit it out loud, though. It’s scaring.

Uncomfortable again by his thoughts Richie sways from side to side, with his hands in his pockets, half smiling. He waits for Bill to follow his path, they will meet later either way. But Bill does not leave and Richie’s nerves increase.

_Why don’t you go away, Great Bill? Why don’t you go with Bev, _a girl_, to kiss her and hug her, and tell her all kinds of stupid and romantic teenage shit? Or with Greta Bowie, or with Sally Mueller? Why no better you go with all of them and start a polyamorous relationship, the fuck? _Love is love_, after all_!

“W-w-well?” Bill asks, as baffled as he feels.

“Well what?”

_The fuck, indeed_.

Bill frowns, squeezing the handle more tightly, as if he isn’t already clear enough.

(he is not.)

“Are-aren’t you g-g-going to ge-t-t on?” and Richie jumps, without a congruent answer to give.

Feeling like the stupid  
(how stupid they are)  
tears gallop in his eyes, clouding his glasses.

He doesn’t want to cry, of course, he just... he doesn’t expect it.

He doesn’t expect to meet Bill before he arrives with the rest. He doesn’t expect to be wondering how it would feel to be a girl so he can like boys without shame whasoever. He doesn’t expect any of this bullshit honestly, nor the bullshit from two years ago. Pictures bleeding and winking and cutting and a ghost without an arm and Bill trusting him in his fear. But he is not about to cry for those trivialities— no, no, what troubles him is The Question.

Although Eddie occasionally sits in Silver’s back basket, Bill rarely invites anyone to ride it with him— in circumstances that don’t involve fleeing death in the form of a sinister and murderous clown. It’s like... _like a treasure_.

(few have the honor of getting on his bike, just as few came to ride the Lone Ranger’s horse with his consent.)

And yet— yet there they are, breaking that unwritten law.

Like when he invited Bev to accompany him to the movies on impulse and received a flirtatious comment, Richie takes refuge in the absurd, questioning only a second why he thinks of Bev in a moment like this.

“Ah, bless the Lord! the Lone Ranger has invited me on a horse ride! I will have to inform my dear father, the Sheriff, and wait for him to grant me his blessing about us. Oh Lord, oh Lord, my first date with _such a gentleman_! What dress will I wear, what shoes, what corset, what...?”

Then—

Then Bill bursts out laughing, interrupting Richie’s monologue of his newly discovered voice of damsel in distress, and Richie has to blink a few times, not knowing whether to laugh or cry in shame. Both sound very tempting. But Bill grips his stomach tightly, and his cheeks are burning, _and he may well have blushed at his words_. At least, Richie wants to believe so.

(yes to stupid teenage love, yes to Bill, yes.)

Richie also thinks that when he regains his composture Bill will throw him in the face of how crazy he is, not unkindly, laugh a little more, not with malice, and try to ask him again, now more seriously. Usually that would be the case, the Bigmouth is him, not Bill.

But Bill Denbrough is nothing but surprises. Of course.

“The S-Sh-Sher-r-ri-iff has alre-re-ady given m-m-me his b-blessing.” He lifts a non-existent cowboy hat from his head, and in an almost courteous, almost tender— _almost real_— gesture extends his hand, waiting for his in return. “S-so, will yo-u-u-u grant me t-th-this ride, Tozier?”

God.

Abort, abort!

“Fuck, Billy. I’m not a girl,” he replies, half joking half serious, and blushing like never before, but smiling— _always smiling_. It hurts, somewhat.

The option of running away and joining the circus seems attractive, but Richie doesn’t move. He remains still, watching with guilty pleasure the hand extended towards him.

“I kn-kno-w.” Bill eventually says. “Y-y-you don’t h-ha-have to b-b-be one.”

...Oh.

_But maybe I want to, for you_.

It’s almost, as if Bill understands.

(Because Bill always_ understands_.)

But still.

Richie thinks

_How much I would like to disappear, go far, far away. If I don’t do it I’m not sure how much I can endure Bill, and I will end up kissing you and you will hate me, just as I hate this feeling_

that he could bear with this better if he only had a damn cigarette.

“Geez, that was _mean_. Even from you.”

“You s-st-sta-started it.”

“I know.”

“S-s-so?”

“I don't know,” he doesn’t know.

“_I do_,” Bill says. And without waiting for any refusal on his part Bill grabs him abruptly, putting Richie behind him, not in the basket, but in the huge seat. Due to the shock Richie wraps his arms around Bill’s waist, unconsciously. “Beep-beep! o-o-our friends are wai-waiting f-fo-for us.”

“What the hell...? No, wait Bill. God, wait!” Richie yells, but every effort is in vain.

As soon as he hears the _Hi-yo Silver!_ AWAAAAAAAAAAAY! and Silver starts to move, in a way other people would call suicidal, any chance to flee moves away with the wind against. Richie wants to scream, get mad at him, jump even at the cost of his health, hit him, whatever. Instead, he clings to his shirt, releasing hysterical laughter at times, howling with joy while the air hits his glasses and Bill laughs with him, pedaling at full speed.

Unintentionally Richie recalls their escape from Neibolt Street too, the werewolf, the tears, everything— and strengthens his grip as they go down the sidewalk, straight to the fence that will take them to the Barrens. He feels Bill tense for a second, but he relaxes and concentrates fully on his pedaling.

His heart shouts, then.

And it’s a revelation of sorts.

Because Bill is his hero, even if that makes him  
(the damsel in distress).

Because Bill is the stutterer, the leader everyone trusts, the future writer, his best friend.

And he loves him— fraternally, amicably, romantically, who gives a damn— so much, so much that _he would die for him_. Whatever he said: “Richie, p-p-pass me the s-sal-t,” or, “Richie, th-th-throw yourself of-f-f that cliff,” his answer would be a loud and clear: Yes, Great Bill, because he really loves him. Just like that. As simple as love can be, without reasons, without the need to carve their names on trees or recite complex poems that none of them would understand.

Turning to left, still clinging to Bill, Richie suddenly knows it— somehow, in his milk-bones, with certainty, that this love _is not wrong_, that it’s enough if it makes him _happy_, that _he doesn’t need to change himself_ in any way, that next to Bill everything is going to be fine— with or without monsters, with or without prejudice.

(if we remain together we can do anything Bill, you and I.)

“Hey Billy,” Bill looks over his shoulder, and Richie reveals him a secret— the kind of secret that comes every twenty-seven years. Bill bites his lips, swallowing a smile, and his embarrasment.

“J-j-joking ag-g-ain, Richie?”

Then Silver advances, whistling. The first sunset lights on the horizon safeguard his words. And Richie allows himself to embrace him, sincerely, for the first time.

“_Yes sir_, just joking.”

_Because maybe the idea of being the damsel in distress doesn’t bother me so much, not if you’re the one who saves me at the end of the day_.

X

(“... I love y-y-you too, Rich.”)


End file.
